


In Darkness Crowned

by avanti_90



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanti_90/pseuds/avanti_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is written in the histories of the Noldor that when Finarfin son of Finwë became King in Tirion, he placed the crown upon his own head; that none of the Powers gave their blessing on that long night, and no other of the royal House stood beside the king; that in the square of Tirion the people wept in grief, and that the king wept with them, for their losses and his own. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Darkness Crowned

_Friend of the Noldor, teacher and protector, grant your people light in their hour of darkness; guide them to strength in their moment of weakness; have mercy on those who have been mistaken, and knowing their error have returned to you._

 

***

 

The council hall was empty and cold. Where once gold and silver light had streamed through the tall windows, now silken curtains were drawn to hide the darkness. Hastily lit candles in the corners cast long shadows into the gloom, gathering and twisting into fearsome shapes around the great stone seat at the far end. Beside the high seat a figure knelt on the steps, but few elven eyes could have discerned his dark cloak from the shadows. Only a few strands of golden hair falling loose about his face gave him away.

Slow, careful footsteps approached, and firelight banished the darkness for a space. Mahtan, the old smith, stood in the doorway carrying a torch; the light flickering over his deep red beard and simple smith's garb gave him a look that was half shadow and half flame.

“Lord Aulë will not come,” he whispered, crossing the room.

“I had thought so.” Finarfin raised his head. “My own prayers have gone unanswered; I had hoped that your words might… but no. Save for those few of you who remained loyal, his eyes are turned from the Noldor.”

Mahtan bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Finarfin looked away. Intentions carried no weight with Aulë, only results, and in rage the Lord of Mountains was implacable as stone. Certainly he would not bend for Finarfin son of Finwë, who had never been one of the smith’s followers, yet had betrayed him all the same.

Aulë had crowned Finwë King beside the first shoot of Galathilion long ago; Aulë had taken their people from the forest and taught them to mine the first jewel, to cut the first stone, to set brick upon brick until they raised the walls of Tirion. Finarfin himself had apprenticed at Aulë’s forge for a year of the trees, had studied the deepest natures of stone and clay and metal, and though as soon as he might he had fled to the holy mountain to sit at Elemmirë’s feet and learn arts more to his taste, he had not forgotten. Yet he found that this latest loss did not shatter him as it ought; indeed it barely scarred his heart.

"..and you have not left these rooms since you returned to Tirion. It is enough, Finarfin, enough. The city must see the king."

Finarfin brought himself back to the present and forced himself to his feet, trembling from the hours he had spent kneeling. "I know," he said softly. The few lords that remained of the king's council were lost, bereft, and unable to agree on anything without Fingolfin's powerful influence, but each had insisted that this must be done. _We have lost all else; let us have unity, let us have a king. Let us have at least a symbol, if you cannot find it in yourself to be more._ "I know. That does not make it easier."

His eyes turned in the direction of the Great Square. Through the drawn curtains he could see flickers of firelight. "If it must be done," he said, "let it be done quickly. I am weary of waiting and hoping." Ignoring the ornate robes of court draped over Mahtan's arm, he walked to the doors and opened them. 

All of it came back to Finarfin as he stepped out into the square; the memories, the bitterness, the fear and despair of that night. He walked to the platform with slow, measured steps, trying not to trip in the dark; but in his mind he ran, pushing elves aside without a care in his haste to get between his brothers, as the crowd roared and words of fury rang out over his head.

They were all there; all that remained of the Noldor of Tirion, gathered beneath Galathilion's bare and drooping branches in a sad shadow of that night. For this was no more than a ninth part of those that had stood here before, and the faces Finarfin saw now were hungry and pale, empty-eyed. 

 _Why are you all silent now?_ he wanted to ask the eyes that rested on him, watching, waiting. _Where now is your strength, your rage, your dreams of glory?_ But all words died away on his lips.

Finwë would not have been silent in this time of darkness; no, his father would have been planning in ten directions, sending everyone running to carry out his commands until they could not help but forget their grief. Fëanor would have filled their hearts with the fire of vengeance, Fingolfin would have reassured them; even Eärwen, gentle, quiet Eärwen, would have had words of comfort to warm their hearts. But he was none of those. He could only speak softly, of calm, of consideration - and no one would listen, no one had listened.

 _Nay,_ rose the cry in a thousand voices, young and old and terrifying. _Nay, let us be gone!_  

Mahtan knelt before him and held out the crown of his forging, a mere circlet of gold. There was a murmur in the crowd at the realization that Aulë would not come, but it quickly sank back into silence. Yet Finarfin could feel the abandonment in the air, the fear, the loss.

It felt as though they were all half in a nightmare, lost in a darkness of the spirit to match the sky above. In this hour they had not Finwë, not Fingolfin; not even Fëanor the crafty. All they had was this third son, unsuited, untrained, tested and failed.

_One more fall for a fallen race._

He raised his hands and took the crown from Mahtan; he placed it on his head, and from the crowd he heard the faint sound of weeping.

 

 ***

 

When the people had dispersed he could not stay. The councilors came to him, bringing the same questions they did each day: food stores running out and new crops unable to grow, craftsmen gone or lacking the materials to work, property left without its owner... why ask him? What did he know of these matters? Once he would have cared, he thought, once he would have had _something_ to say, but now they might as well have been speaking an unknown language. 

He left them vying for each other’s attention and wandered the streets, passing unnoticed beneath windows shuttered against the terrors of the dark, past abandoned homes and empty workshops, until his feet found a familiar path.

Death and decay were everywhere. The trees had shed their leaves, the flowers along the garden path had long since withered away. He walked hastily past the putrid lotus-pond, crushing dead grass beneath his feet until he reached the door hanging open, the dust-filled rooms.

He wandered aimlessly, not knowing where to look. Here Finrod had played his first notes on the harp, Finarfin’s hand resting lightly over his small fingers. Here, by this window, Eärwen had sat to comb Aegnor’s unruly hair morning after morning, before she had finally given up and cut it to a half-inch fuzz. Here, the little nook where Galadriel would retreat to study in peace, when her brothers searched up and down the house -

Here… here, the bedspread decorated with tiny pearls, the mirror bordered with seashells. A strand of silver hair glittered in reflected light; here, a round glass bowl where fish had swum. The other rooms had been stripped bare but for their memories; here weeks had passed and still the air seemed to carry her scent.

Here, a pair of slender silver rings, tied together with a ribbon. These did not belong here; they were memories of the lamplit beaches, where a laughing silver-haired maiden had taught a shy young prince to swim and sail and play the flute; to speak his first few words of the Telerin tongue, even as he learned that eyes could speak infinitely more than words.

Holding her ring he wished for nothing more than to run - out of the house, out of the silent city and all the way down to Alqualondë, to kneel at her feet and throw everything else away, let grief and unwanted burdens disappear in her arms. And always the same images came back, clear as if they were before him. The shattered lamps, the harbor burning, and the bodies fallen on the white sands - so many, as far as the eye could see. The sea was blood and the stench of death was all around him; he was crying out, and one of his children - he could not even tell which in that moment - was holding him back, and the world was crashing down before his eyes. 

Now there were guards before the silver arches, armed and armored, and even he who was husband to their princess, who Olwë had so many times called son, could not pass. Only Anairë had come for all his pleading; Anairë, bowed and frightened, so different from the proud queen he knew.  _Go; you may not enter. She will not return._

If only he had not stopped so often to look back, he could have reached before Fëanor. If only he had been more persuasive, he might have calmed his brother's madness a little… but of what use were these thoughts? Had he reached Alqualondë it would likely have achieved no more than anything else he had done. He had failed to keep peace in his family, failed to persuade anyone of anything, failed to keep his own children safe, let alone his own people, Noldor and Teleri both. What right had _he_ , of all elves, to take the place that had been his father’s and should have been his brother’s?

He clutched the rings and stumbled away. Here – here, Angrod and Aegnor kicking each other under the table, Finrod excitedly describing some new project, Eärwen coaxing him to eat between the flow of words. Here he had come on an evening, weary after soothing the outraged followers of one or the other brother, and found his children sparring with swords in the courtyard. Never before had he known such anger and grief and terrible fear; yet in all their years he had never raised voice or hand against any of them – not until Araman.

 _Fools I called you,_ he whispered to the deaf and silent room. _Fools and sinners and traitors. It was not false, but I would also say this, that I love you nonetheless. I love you, all of you._

He could not sleep here, in this nightmare.

 

 

***

He made his way back through the dark streets to the vast emptiness of Finwë’s house. Here there were fewer memories to haunt the shadows. The familiar objects of his childhood had long since disappeared, to Formenos with his father or to Taniquetil with his mother and sister. In his father’s study he stopped to smell a musty scroll; in his mother's rooms he found one of the tiny silver bells she had worn in her hair, and stood still for several minutes, listening to its tinkling.

On a stand beside it there were several small figures of painted clay, the largest no taller than his hand. He knew these well; the two large ones in the center were Finwë and Indis, and beside them Findis and Irimë, laughing hand in hand. And this one would be Fëanor, his brow creased and eyes narrowed, his hands busy in some unseen work. Only Nerdanel was missing, the laughing lady who had married his solemn brother and moved him to laughter, who had sculpted Finarfin and all his siblings from childhood to marriage and yet could never capture her own image. Nerdanel, who, on hearing the news from Alqualondë, had locked herself in her workshop and not emerged since for all her father’s pleading.

From his mother's chambers he passed into Nerdanel's. In the vast gallery there were torches and brackets on the walls. Finarfin lit them and stopped in the center of the room, gazing up at the fourteen figures that towered over him.

Manwë stood before him, scepter in hand, a great black eagle perched on his shoulder with wings unfurled. Beside him was Varda, fiery hair spreading all around her, golden hands held aloft and blazing with flame. Aulë held a high place next to Manwë, his brown face stern and weathered as ancient stone; each feature was sculpted with evident love.

From every direction their eyes bored into the deepest corners of his soul, demanding and disappointed, and the ache in his heart grew; guilt and grief welled up inside him until Finarfin could bear it no more, and fell to his knees on the carpet before Manwë's scepter.

“Great ones,” he whispered, taking the crown from his head. “I have failed once more; I have not the strength for this task you have given me. I beg you, let it be given to one more worthy, take it, leave me…”

 _Leave me to mourn._ He closed his eyes and bowed his head, prayed with all the strength that was left to him, but Manwë and Varda remained silent, Aulë unforgiving. Minutes passed, and only silence answered him. They would not hear him, would not show even this pity to the Noldor.

"Great ones," he whispered, tears rising in his eyes. "Have _mercy_."

There was silence; and then, behind him, a sound like the scraping of stone against stone. As Finarfin began to turn a hand rested on his head, strong as stone but gentle and warm, spreading its warmth all through his body. His eyes flew open in amazement, and he looked around into a face hooded and shadowed, but one that had never been sculpted by elven hands.

"My lady," he murmured.

From the walls thirteen figures met Finarfin’s gaze, stone-eyed and stone-faced, but between Námo and Irmo there was now an empty plinth. Vision or delusion, whatever she was she stood before him now, gray-cloaked and shadowed and gazing down upon his face.

“You prayed for mercy, son of Finwë,” Nienna murmured, warm hands resting on his tear-streaked face. “I am here.”

Her smile was gentle, filled with compassion. “I see pain carved on your heart," she said softly. "Bitterness and guilt, and a desire to cut yourself off from all others, most of all those who most desperately need your help. Aye, child, it is a terrible pain, when a parent brings children into his home, teaches them and molds them, rejoices in their growth, only to see hatred in their eyes as they turn their backs on him, choosing rather darkness and death…”

Finarfin gasped. She smiled softly, sinking down to her knees beside him. “Yes, child; you know. Now think of what we must feel. Do you think my brethren have forsaken you? It is not so, child, it is only in grief that they are silent. In time they will remember that which you do, that they love you nonetheless; I promise you, even Aulë will remember.”

It was exactly as Finarfin had held all his children when they were hurt and afraid, as his mother had held him in his own childhood, and suddenly he could not stop the tears that had threatened him all day long. Before he could remember who and what he faced, he found himself weeping into her shoulder. Her arms went around him, and they were arms of stone, yet somehow as gentle and welcoming as he remembered his mother's embrace.

“I grieve with you, child,” Nienna whispered, holding him close. “I grieve for all the Eldar who were as children to us; I grieve for the trees destroyed and innocence lost. And yet I grieve also for lamps, for stars, for worlds that died long before your race awakened. I grieve for music marred, son of Finwë, for greatness fallen and for dreams betrayed. I grieve for that first of all fathers, whose most beloved child fell from him in discord." She drew back, looking down at him with the same calm gentleness in her face. "Yet I go on, and I have not ceased to love, nor to hope for peace at the end of all things.”

Finarfin swallowed. “Lady,” he whispered, “I have not your strength. To give peace one must have peace in his heart; to give love, one must be left with someone, something, to love. I cannot do this.”

Her eyes were hidden by the hood, but Finarfin could feel the weight of her gaze. She picked up the crown from the floor and gazed at it for a few moments, turning it over in her hands.

“Ingoldo,” she sighed at last, “understand what the task is before you forsake it. We do not ask you to build a city from the ground as your father did. All we want you do is to build peace. Build love. Build laughter and confidence. All this you can do, and have done, your entire life.”

“And failed!” Finarfin answered bitterly. “I wished only to build one thing – a home and a family, and I have failed. Now all those are gone from me, never to return; I have nothing to give, lady.”

There was silence for a heartbeat. Then:

“Nothing?” Her voice, so gentle before, suddenly echoed around the room and sent shivers down his spine. “Tell me, did you not seek ever to bring peace between your divided kin? Did you not offer comfort to the children of your brothers, all those years when their fathers were at odds? Was that nothing, Finarfin?”

 _Yes_ , he wished to say, _see how much good it has done_ , but Nienna reached out for his face, wiped away the last of his tears. “Perhaps that is what the Noldor need in their king,” she murmured. “Not great skill or heroism, but comfort in which to heal, to find joy once again. Perhaps all you need to do is to be who you are.”

Why did she, to whose eyes no heart was hidden, not understand? “Lady, the elf you speak of is gone. He died at Alqualondë, perhaps, or at Araman. You see me as I am – and I tell you, I have nothing.”

She took Finarfin's hands between her own. “Yet I see much.”

Slowly her hands began to shimmer, pale gray-white in the torchlit darkness, and Finarfin gasped as power flowed into him, building all around them, more power than his body could contain. It overflowed, burst and tore at him, and all of a sudden the gallery was spinning around him, air was rushing past his head, and then his feet no longer felt the floor and he was rising, rising until the wind shrieked in his ears and tore at his eyes and he could not draw breath to scream.

As abruptly as it had begun the howling wind abated to a cold breeze; catching his breath, Finarfin opened his eyes to the starlit night. He knelt on ice-cold stone instead of carpeted floor, and narrow pillars of the same stone rose into a dark canopy over his head. Collecting himself, he rose and stumbled till he caught hold of the nearest pillar, and looked out.

Far below him he saw an expanse of small, scattered lights outlining towers, and the shadows of mountains loomed high in the distance. Finarfin caught his breath as he realized where he had come; though the sight was strange to him he knew himself to be on the summit of the Mindon. None save the kings of the Eldar had ever set foot on this stone, not even Fëanor.

He turned around slowly. The Lady Nienna stood still and silent before a stone pillar, a pale light spreading from her hands to illuminate the dark cloak and the white flagstones beneath her feet, and the golden crown still lying on the floor before them. All appearance of stone was gone; this was the Lady as she stood in her own domain, radiant power clothed in immortal flesh.

Slowly she walked to stand beside him. Finarfin could feel power crackling in the air, the stones vibrating under his feet.

“Look down,” she commanded.

Silently, he looked - and everywhere his eyes turned he saw with gifted sight. In one direction, a ragged woman walked through a market all abandoned. Neighbors passed each other silently in the streets, glancing quickly at each other with dark, suspicious eyes. Here a young child – thin and dirty and surely no more than fifteen - wandered the streets alone, weeping unheard.

Finarfin stared. How could this be? In _Tirion_! Without thinking he reached out to sweep her up in his arms, and in that instant he was back in the cold tower, his hands closing around thin air.

“Tirion lies in ruins,” Nienna whispered. “The best of the craftsmen left with your brothers. The fields are dead, the last harvest running out. There are wives abandoned by their husbands, husbands by their wives; there are children whose parents died on the march, or at Alqualondë, or simply left them behind, thrusting them into the arms of kin or friends or anyone who might keep them safe, and many of them could not. If nothing is done, the Noldor will wither and die; those that remain will abandon the city and be absorbed into the other kindreds, or will become a homeless race, wandering the land and shunned by all their kindred. Is this nothing to you?”

Finarfin shuddered, still staring down at the city. “Let another come and lead them, then,” he said quietly. “Anyone would do better than I would, than I have done. Or let us join with our Vanyar kindred, and be counted the least among them; what are the Noldor that we should survive, after all? All Aman has seen the Noldor for what we are – maddened, cursed, kinslayers. Perhaps our fall will be counted a blessing.”

The silence was so deep that for a moment Finarfin thought he had moved her to wrath, and welcomed it. But she only placed her hands on his shoulders, turning him around. West his eyes wandered now, far across the rolling hills to the city of a thousand bells that rang loud and clear in his mind. Past the golden gates of Valimar to the green mound where a pair of dried black husks rose amidst the scorched grass; around these the Valar sat vigil, heads bowed and hands clasped. And now he could see the web of power that gathered around them, its golden tendrils stretching from Valimar to every corner of Aman; here they pushed the earth, strained against the roots of the highest mountains; there they met and tangled into formless mists over the open sea.

“A great building is about to begin,” Nienna whispered. “The land you know will change beyond recognition. In the forges of Aulë the Maiar labor to build new lights that will replace the old; there shall be light not in the west only, but from here to the uttermost east the darkness will end."

"Yes," Finarfin said coolly. "And I am no craftsman. These lights will rise with or without me, even with or without the Noldor, and for all their splendor they will not end _my_ darkness."

There was a long pause. "If this too is nothing to you - look east.”

Finarfin stepped back as quickly as he could. “I cannot. Do not ask –”

“ _Look._ ” The word did not emerge from her mouth but shaped itself in the air around him, and Finarfin’s eyes moved to the open sea, and, uncontrollably, irresistibly, to the lands beyond it.

He looked, but dared not let his gaze linger, for everywhere were terrors greater than he could have imagined. Beside the sea he saw a great mass of charred wood, and then further the remains of battle, bodies maimed and twisted, the wounded bleeding out their lives on the grass. And then a fortress rising out of the mountains, more black and terrible than endless night, grotesque figures breeding in its labyrinthine depths, a prisoner screaming - _no!_

He drew back in horror, and all was ice, ice so cold that it burned his hands, so fragile that it cracked beneath his feet. A great column stretched out before him for miles, elves shuffling forward with slow, shaky steps as though they were not elves but puppets like those Fëanor had once carved for his children. He looked wildly around him. Every face he saw was gaunt and frostbitten, dying - or dead, for behind the column an even longer stretch of bodies lay abandoned for the cold to claim.

At the head of the column he found his brother – but how changed! For now rage and bitterness filled him, driving him on; all else had been killed by cold and betrayal. And beside him – Angrod and Aegnor determinedly driving on through the snow, Galadriel proud and queenly, gathering the followers she had so desired – and Finrod, shivering, but his hands still steady, still holding Finarfin’s banner high above their heads.

He must have cried out; he would have fallen but for Nienna supporting him. She stroked his hair as he shook and trembled, warmth spreading from her hands to surround him and wrap him against the real and remembered cold. “I have given you true sight, but only of the present,” she said gently. “It is for you to tell me what the future holds.”

“I am not a seer,” Finarfin whispered when he found his voice. “Two of my children are, but I do not share that power.” _Then how is it that they went, and I remain?_  

“Some things may blind even the greatest of seers; some things need no power to see.”

“They will fail,” he whispered. The words stuck in his throat, choking and sickening. “They will survive terrible hardships; they will live in times of desperate glory, and their deeds will shape the world for ages to come. But in the end they will fail, and fall: by weapon and by torment and by grief…”

“And when they fall,” she said, “when their people are slain, child, what then?”

Finarfin stared at her, uncomprehending. “When they fall,” she asked, “who will speak for them in their hour of need? Who will stand before the thrones of the Valar and speak with the authority of a king, with his people behind him? When the power of the East is broken, who in the west will stand armed and ready to cross the seas to their aid, Finarfin son of Finwë?”

Finarfin looked away.But he knew the answer, even though his heart quailed from it. Abruptly, he remembered Rúmil’s voice from his childhood:  _The sight of the Valar never fades_. Each face he had seen this day was graven onto his soul; his gift and his curse.

But now there was no command, no power, only gentle, almost pleading words. “Look within yourself, Finarfin,” she whispered. “Look, and ask yourself if you have indeed nothing to strive for.”

Finarfin closed his eyes, and a medley of terrible images assailed him.  _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…_

But he had spoken words no less bitter at Araman, and had been answered in kind; now he remembered and regretted. And he knew with sudden, absolute certainty that a day would come when the Valar too would remember the children they loved, and would grieve at their bitter parting, even as he did.

When that day came his children would need him, though they knew it not; and he could not turn his back on them. If a king would be needed on that day, then a king he must be, impossible as it seemed, terrible as it would be. If a sword would be needed, then a sword he must take up, much as he hated the sight of it.

He shivered. “I will stand with you, lady,” he whispered. “I will stand, whatever it costs. And the Noldor will stand with me – united, and powerful, and prepared.”

There was silence; but in that silence Finarfin sensed that some great and unseen wheel was turned, some unheard note was struck. Fate, great and terrible, had hinged on this moment; he had made the choice, had set into motion powers that would affect the fate of the universe – but however he struggled he could not tell if the choice had been for good or ill.

_This is what it is to be a king._

Nienna smiled. 

Slowly, she raised her hands and lifted her hood, and Finarfin saw a face few of the Eldar had ever set eyes upon; as bright and brilliant as the stars, as dark and terrible as the night; eyes that shone like endless pools of silver, filled with tears of grief and joy.

The fallen crown flew from the floor to her hands, and tears splashed down upon its circlet. From the fallen tears a pool of silver spread, writhing and twisting with the gold of the crown, both swirling together and rising into a new form.

On the circlet, twin silver serpents twined around each other; their eyes were darkness; gold formed a circle of flowers atop their heads.

Her voice was a whisper that rang through the tower, that reverberated through the ancient stone; a voice born in the fiery depths of the universe, whose song had shaped the world from emptiness; a deep and terrible music that filled Finarfin’s veins with its power. In that voice there was thunder and lightning, terror and pain, hope and deliverance; there was the howling of the wind, the weeping of the abandoned, the fire of dying stars and the crash of falling mountains. In that voice words reverberated alone from the beginning to the end of all things, and Finarfin went to his knees before the crown.

_King of the Noldor; King in Tirion; Ingoldo._

   

 ***

 

Nerdanel did not unlock her doors; he parted them with a word of power, more than he knew he possessed.

Her workshop was lovingly decorated, every wall painted and set with tiny mirrors, every door finely carved and polished to a shine. It had been beautiful even when there had been seven children in and out of it every day; it was still the same but for the thick layer of dust that coated everything. The only dust Finarfin had ever known in this place was that of clay or stone, soon cleaned away before it returned. The dust of disuse never approached Nerdanel.

The long worktables were piled high with wood and string and metal. Lamps, he realized as he approached the blue crystals partly set in their cases. She had been making lamps, when the messenger came from Alqualondë.

The benches were empty; a small, hunched figure sat unmoving in a corner. Had it not been for the tangle of red hair that fell before her face, he would not have known Nerdanel. Her face was stained with dirt and dried tears, her once brilliant eyes dull and red with crying.

He held a flask to her lips, lifting her head and letting the water trickle slowly down her throat. She gasped and swallowed.

“Leave me alone,” she said hoarsely after a few minutes. Her eyes were closed, her voice almost silent. “Please.”

He did, but only because the sight of her thin, pinched face compelled it; he guessed she had not eaten since the messenger came, either. There was very little in the small kitchen behind the workshop, but he knew how to make do with little. He had cared for enough hungry children. He had fed Fëanor’s children in his house, a long time ago.

He cooked a stew that Celegorm had liked best, found bread that was not too old to eat, and brought it all back to the dusty corner. He sat on the floor and fed her at first, tearing off small pieces of bread and soaking them in stew as if she were a small child, until at last Nerdanel ate with trembling hands.

“Why have you come?” she asked, as if the answer did not matter to her, as if nothing mattered any longer.

“Because you are the only one left.”

Nerdanel swallowed, looked down and did not answer. “Light,” Finarfin said after a moment. “The first thing I need is light on the streets. First throughout the city, then a chain of lights stretching all the way down Túna and along the road to Valimar. We will need to send fast messengers. The road to Alqualondë can wait.”

She did not seem to register his words. “The second thing I need is a system to tell time. Something based on the fall of water, or sand, perhaps, but you can come up with better ideas, I am certain-”

At that she laughed bitterly, derisively. “And you have come to command that I build these things for you? Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You will begin today. But not here; the house of Indis stands empty, and the king’s workshops lie unused. Will you come back home, Nerdanel? I cannot live alone in an empty house, hearing nothing but the footsteps of those who are gone. Can you?”

Her eyes were still dull, weary, but at that there was some shadow of the spark that had once matched Fëanor. “You would not wish me in your house.” she said flatly, as if stating a proven fact. “There was a time when all the Noldor bowed before me in the streets, and whispered as I passed; _look, there is the mother of seven sons_. And now?” She laughed again. “Seven kinslayers, seven madmen, seven monsters! Let me be, Finarfin. Go and rebuild your city; you cannot rebuild me.”

“Nay,” Finarfin said steadily. “Seven children of your body and spirit, whom you love and always will.”

She stilled, her shoulders trembling for a moment. “Let me tell you what the Noldor will say,” he whispered. “They will say: Here is Nerdanel the Wise, who counseled us to peace and understanding when we were foolish. Here is the woman who used her skills to craft beauty when every craftsman around her made weapons of war. Let her be honored among the great of the Noldor, and her words heeded ever after!”

He lifted a hand to Nerdanel's face, and raised it. “They would not listen to me either," he said softly, holding her gaze. "They would not listen and now they are gone – but we remain, and someday we will find them and bring them home. Curse or no curse, this I say as King of the Noldor: we will cross the sundering seas, and we _will_ find them. Live as I will live, if nothing else, Nerdanel. Live for that day.”

She stared at him then, as if seeing him anew; the voice, the crown, the light of the Valar in his eyes; when he clasped her hands and pulled her to her feet, she did not resist.

“Light,” she whispered, and one by one, the lamps flickered on in the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

>  _1\. She dwells alone. She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered in the marring of Melkor. So great was her sorrow, as the Music unfolded, that her song turned to lamentation long before its end, and the sound of mourning was woven into the themes of the World before it began. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope._  
>  -The Silmarillion: Valaquenta
> 
> 2\. _The form Ingoldo may be noted: it is a form of Ñoldo with syllabic ň, and being in full and more dignified form is more or less equivalent to ‘the Ñoldo, one eminent in the kindred’. It was the mother-name of Arafinwë [Finarfin], and like the name Arakáno ‘high chieftain’ that Indis gave to Ñolofinwë [Fingolfin] was held to be ‘prophetic’._  
>  \- The Peoples of Middle-Earth: The Shibboleth of Feanor
> 
> 3\. _Yet the lords of this third house were less haughty and more fair than the others, and had had no part in the kinslaying, and many with Finrod himself returned unto Valinor and the pardon of the Gods. But Aulë their ancient friend smiled on them no more, and the Teleri were estranged._  
>  The Shaping of Middle-earth: The Earliest Annals of Valinor
> 
> 4\. I keep reading that Finarfin was left with a tithe, or tenth part of the Noldor; but as far as I can tell from the texts, the tenth part of the Noldor was what _never set out on the march._ As many are said to have returned with Finarfin, I guessed that the net population of Tirion after Finarfin's return might have been one-ninth of the original.


End file.
